Summary: You catch Katsuki jerking off and help him.
Warnings/Contains: Smut, established relationship (MARRIAGE!!!!), masturbation, voyeurism, scent kink?, sub!Katsuki, praise kink, orgasm denial, dirty talk, fantasies, Katsuki begging, 'good boy' use, orgasm, a lot of 'fucks'.
WC: 1,933
Posted On: 14/06/26 also on AO3!
Title Song: Thinking Of You - A Perfect Circle
18+ MDNI!!!
Divider by @thecutestgrotto
Katsuki Bakugou was never the kind of guy to jerk off.
After he had gotten in a relationship with you in your second year of high school, his need for pleasure always happened to be you. He'd barge in and took what he want from you — with your consent, of course.
Then, once you two married three years after graduating, you two had sex a lot. Like a lot; nearly everyday.
He couldn't keep his hands off of you.
But tonight, you weren't at home. 'Stupid Pinky' had dragged you out to go clubbing with her tonight, not that he minded — you both knew you belonged to each other anyway.
Now, Katsuki was sitting on the couch uncomfortably, erection twitching through his black sweatpants as he tried to ignore the need. You left hours ago, but fuck, that short dress you were wearing had made him lose his mind the minute you walked out of your walk-in closet. The one he had custom-made for you.
"Stupid…" he growled to himself, adjusting his length through his pants, "am I fuckin' teenager or somethin'?" He could barely focus on the dumb, old pro-hero history documentary he had put on just to distract himself.
But every time he closed his eyes, he could only envision you. Your dumb face. Dumb smile.
Katsuki groaned once more and ran a hand through his hair, furrowing his eyebrows hard. "Khh- fuck- fuck this," he shot up from the couch, turning off the T.V. as quickly as possible, storming off to their bedroom. Curse his stupid wife for making him feel so horny without her there.
He pulled his pants down once he laid on his bed, getting comfortable on his back. He saw your shirt on your side of the bed and tensed up, he hurriedly grabbed it and brought it up to his nose. "Shit…" he groaned out in satisfaction, soaking in the scent of your musky shirt.
His hands shot to his throbbing cock, too needy to care about dry beating.
"Mm… F/N…" he let out a quiet groan, gripping his length, stroking it at a medium pace. He missed you, so damn much. Your tits looked absolutely perfect in that dress, the fuck-ass dress he bought you as a surprise.
The grip of his hand tightened, thoughts drifting to the sight of you under him the night before. He had a stressful patrol and just needed you under him. "Shittttt," Katsuki hissed, pushing his nose deeper into the shirt, sweaty palms soaking it a little.
"My perfect woman," his voice muffled by the shirt, "need- need you so fuckin' bad."
What he hadn't realised was that you had gotten home five minutes beforehand. You had quietly made your way home, leaving early from clubbing since you had a coffee date planned with Katsuki the next morning.
You slipped your heels off and placed them against the wall, making your way upstairs to the bedroom. What you had assumed was that Katsuki was already sleeping, since his Saturday bedtime was around 11pm; it was currently 1:34am.
However, there he was on your bed, sniffing the pyjama shirt that you had been wearing the night before, other hand fucking his fist. He was moaning pathetically, occasionally grunting out your name.
Your eyes widened at the sight; you had never seen him jerk off before and boy, was it incredible. Yeah, you could have said something. But it was too good not to watch for a little, so you did just that.
Katsuki was clueless to his wife watching.
His eyes were shut tight, hips pathetically thrusting in the air while imagining you. You being fucked by him. Your face as he ate you ate. Just you.
"G- Goddammit, F/N…" Katsuki choked out, throwing the shirt back to your side of the bed, using that spare hand to tightly grip the bedsheets. Your hands were placed gently against the doorframe, biting your lip as you tried not to make a sound.
But as soon as Katsuki had choked out your name loudly, you stepped through the door, face flushed with wide eyes, staring at him with need. "W- What the fuck!?" his voice cracked at the end of the sentence as you suddenly appeared.
Katsuki was suddenly feeling embarrassed.
Embarrassed he was caught.
Embarrassed he had been jerking off.
"D- Dammit, F/N!" he yelled defensively, covering himself with the blanket, whimpering as the material grazed his leaking tip. "When did- when did you get home?" he felt utterly pathetic.
You snorted, closing the door behind you gently, "about six minutes ago. Spent the last four watching you touch yourself," you answered honestly, smirking at him. "Don't stop on my account," you walked to the end of the bed, sitting crossed-legged in front of him.
Katsuki's eyes trailed down between your legs, damn soaked panties visible for him to see. "Fuck off," he muttered, "this was a Goddamn moment of weakness. Just- just fucking come here so I can pound your pussy for real."
You shook your head at his request though, resting the side of your face on your hand. "Didn't I just say 'don't stop', Katsuki?"
He gritted his teeth at your defiance but fuck, was it hot. "Fuck you…" he pulled the blanket away from his body, showing off his built, muscular body for you to see. "You better… better let me fuck you after this," he growled as his hands slowly trailed to his cock.
The both of you managed tense eye contact as Katsuki started to tug at his cock, thumb swiping the tip to spread his pre-cum. "Nhh… shit," he pant out.
Every touch and movement had suddenly felt ten times more sensitive with you watching.
Your eyes were boring holes through his as he started to jerk off again, you weren't even paying attention to his pathetic actions that you told him not to stop.
"Are- Are you gonn' watch?" he gritted, biting his bottom lip while his movements grew faster. "You fuckin' asked- asked for it, so watch."
You let out a gasp at his words; you finally looked down and holy shit — his cock was dark red and angry, pre-cum continuously dribbling out while he jerked off.
The image was permanently burned into your memory.
"Shit… what a fucking sight," you leaned forward to intensely stare at it now.
"What the- the fuck are you doing?" Katsuki let out a choked moan, feeling horrendously embarrassed - and turned on - by your intense watching.
"Watching my cock get jerked off," you replied.
The reply shot straight down to the base of his cock, squeezing it a bit harder this time. "Don't fuckin'- ohh- fuckin' say that, F/N," he begged pathetically.
He didn't know how much longer he could last anymore. He was turned on with you watching him that he felt like he was going to burst his load right then and there. You were truly the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on.
"You look so good, Katsuki," you muttered, licking your lips as his breathing hitched. "You're so generous for letting me watch you touch yourself like this. You miss me that much, hm?"
Katsuki's moans choked in his throat. "Don't- don't fuckin' say shit like that…" he begged, his vermillion eyes rolling back, "you're- you're insane." He had never felt so pathetic in his life, he was always the one that teased, not you. But shit, he was kind of enjoying it.
"Aww, c'mon, Katsuki. It seems to me you like being ordered around like that," you chuckled, scooching closer to him as your knees slotted between his legs. Katsuki's heart pounded as you practically forced his legs open a little more.
"Fuck- ugh- fuck off!" he shouted while his hands still moved, "I'm gonna- gonna make you fuckin' regret teasin' me like- oh shit- like this!"
You just shook your head and laughed, hands resting on either side of his knees. "Just keep fucking going, Katsuki. Be a good boy and jerk off for me." Pleasure shot all throughout his body at your demanding words, he never knew he could feel so brainless before.
Is this what you felt like when he would say stuff like that to you?
"I'm gonna cum…" he confessed, head tilting back, making his skin glow under the bedroom lights. "Shit- shit fuck, F/N-" However, you cut off his orgasm shot as your hand shot to his wrist.
"Nuh uh, Katsuki," you warned, tearing the hand away from his cock. Katsuki's eyes widened, throwing his head forward with a pissed-off expression. Usually he was the one who cut off orgasms, but you? That was simply unfair.
"What the fuck!" he snapped, tears welling in his eyes as you made him stop. Well, it wasn't like he couldn't easily get out of your grip, but he liked you being this controlling. "Why'd you damn stop? I was about to fuckin'…"
You cut him off with a laugh, making him feel pathetic and small.
"The only way you're gonna be cumming tonight is by begging for it."
Katsuki blinked mindlessly at your words — are you fucking kidding him? "Ex-fucking-cuse me??" he barked. He was pissed. "I don't fuckin' beg. Not even for a fuckin' orgasm. Are you jokin'?!" However, you just shrugged and moved his hand off his cock.
"Fine then. If you don't want to cum you could have just said so…" you suddenly moved away from between his legs which made him suddenly whine. That noise made you stop and really look at his face; he was flushed red with lust and embarrassment, a sight you rarely saw.
"I- fine. Whatever…" he felt utterly defeated, like putty in your hands. "Please, F/N, let me cum… I'll be- God fucking dammit- I'll be a real good fuckin' boy if you let me."
There it was.
You moved comfortably back between his legs and smirked. You were cruel. "Be a good boy then and cum for me," you permitted, "I'll let you." Before you could finish off your words, Katsuki's hands flew back to his cock, fisting it fast and desperately.
"Yesyesyesyes! So fuckin' good… ughhh," Katsuki let out a loud moan, head thrown back against the headboard as he chased his orgasm. After only a few movements, his body shook in overwhelming pleasure.
Cum squirted out all over his torso, dripping down his abs and sides as his hand squeezed the tip to let more of the liquid dribble out. After a couple minutes of catching his breath, Katsuki cursed silently, staring down at the mess he had made.
Despite the many years of intimacy the two of you have had, he had never felt so pathetic before.
"Fuck you…" he gritted quietly, feeling shy under your overbearing watch.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" you leaned forward to press a kiss on his lips momentarily, "was that okay? did it feel good?"
Katsuki clicked his tongue, refusing to make eye contact with you while reaching the tissue box, grabbing handfuls of tissues to wipe his chest. "I'm gonna fuckin' wipe the bed with your stupid, smirking face," he promised as he cleaned himself up.
You helped him out and grabbed a couple tissues too to wipe up his abs, "Yeah? You promise?"
"I'm gonna fuckin' clean myself in the bathroom. You better be naked on the bed by the time I get back, otherwise, I'll do fucking worse to you."
why is "mummies are so rare bc the british ate them" always presented as like a morbid fun fact and not an example of heinous racism and dehumanization of people of colour to the point of cannibalism. a little bit odd if im honest.
just wanted to add that this is the first time i've seen "british people ate mummies" referred to as "cannibalism," which is a really interesting thing because like. so many times in history classes growing up, "natives" and "indigenous peoples" were purported to engage in "cannibalism" as some sort of explanation for why they were colonized/murdered/etc., but. i just googled. cuz i was curious when british people started/stopped eating mummies, which is definitely cannibalism, yep, human eating human = cannibalism, and.
oh.
would you look at that.
England’s King Charles II took medication made from human skulls after suffering a seizure, and, until 1909, physicians commonly used human skulls to treat neurological conditions.
huh.
Noble’s new book, Medicinal Cannibalism in Early Modern English Literature and Culture, and another by Richard Sugg of England’s University of Durham, Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires: The History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians, reveal that for several hundred years, peaking in the 16th and 17th centuries, many Europeans, including royalty, priests and scientists, routinely ingested remedies containing human bones, blood and fat as medicine for everything from headaches to epilepsy. There were few vocal opponents of the practice, even though cannibalism in the newly explored Americas was reviled as a mark of savagery. Mummies were stolen from Egyptian tombs, and skulls were taken from Irish burial sites. Gravediggers robbed and sold body parts.
Same source:
the poor, who couldn’t always afford the processed compounds sold in apothecaries, could gain the benefits of cannibal medicine by standing by at executions, paying a small amount for a cup of the still-warm blood of the condemned. “The executioner was considered a big healer in Germanic countries,” says Sugg. “He was a social leper with almost magical powers.” For those who preferred their blood cooked, a 1679 recipe from a Franciscan apothecary describes how to make it into marmalade.
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
pro-hero Katsuki and his animalistic tendencies…⏾⋆.˚
warnings: dom!bakugo, fem!reader, smut, p in v, cnc???, condescending praise, pronebone + creampie😛, uhhh idrk what else read w caution + not proofread lol
All day, you’d been seeing countless clips of your boyfriend and the press all over social media. And on a normal day, Katsuki didn’t like talking to the paparazzi because it went a little something like this...
…
“Dynamite! How are you handling the aftermath of the hostages from the apartment complex incident?”
“My team and I are doing everything we can to assist those families–”
“We heard that this is because you failed to capture a villain during a raid. Is this true?”
“No comment.”
“So it is true?”
“I did everything I could under the circumstances.”
“Well, there you have it, folks! Another hero’s mistakes costing lives of civilians! Tune in later to hear more about the shocking news about…”
…
You knew that he was trying to appear less… harsh towards the media. Unfortunately, these run-ins with the press never turned out in his favor.
Katsuki only needs one thing on days like these.
── ⋆⋅☯︎⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☯︎⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☯︎⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☯︎⋅⋆ ──
The lights around your shared apartment were dimmed, and it was unsettlingly quiet. On a normal night, you’d wait up for him at the door…But tonight you let him take you as you slept.
Katsuki dropped his heavy boots and the rest of his costume at the front door and tossed his keys in the key bowl on the shelf. He made his way down the hall, your cat trailing behind him, stopping when he opened your bedroom door and pushed it till it clicked.
There he found you, face down in a lacy black nightgown that he could only make out from the soft light coming from the candle you had lit before drifting off to sleep. Katsuki carefully pulled the warm sheets of your bed to the side and peeled your garments where they pooled right above your ass. He shifted towards the bottom of the bed, grabbing your ankle and kissing his way up to your thighs.
“Suki?” You yawned as you rubbed your eyes. You flipped over and sat up to meet his gaze.
“Long day.” He mumbled as he closed the space between you, lips crashing on yours out of desperation. His tongue swiped against your bottom lip before meeting with yours, his hands reaching for your hips.
Katsuki lets trails along your neck before settling there; he spoke so quietly you couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. All you knew was that he needed you.
“What's going on?” You asked, fingers running through his hair.
“Just let me have you. All of you.”
And with that, you complied, lying back down on your pillow and letting your eyes fall shut. Katsuki kissed you all over, leaving marks on your collarbones as he found himself between your thighs. He brought his thumb and dragged it back and forth between your folds, achingly slow.
You let out a soft whimper, to which he replied by shushing you and replacing his thumb with his tongue. His lips latched around your clit, sucking softly while rubbing circles around your hole. Your hips bucked greedily against his mouth, chasing that sense of immense pleasure. He took his free arm to hold your hips in place while he slipped a finger inside your warmth.
“That's what you wanted, right? For me to come home and touch you like this?”
You moaned at his words and nodded shamelessly. He slipped in a second finger, curling them to rub against your sweet spot. Katsuki chuckled as your walls clenched around him. He withdrew his fingers from you, earning himself another protest from you, and flipped you over on your stomach. He lifted himself off the bed and dropped his boxers to his ankles, kicking them off.
Katsuki climbed back on the bed, right behind you. He gave his cock four looong strokes before dragging himself back and forth between your folds. You whined in response, pushing yourself close to him as he lined himself up with your hole. He pushed himself inside of your wet cunt slowly until he bottomed out, settling with a low groan.
Katsuki gripped your hips, pulling alllll the way out and crashing into your hips roughly. His cock ripped into you harshly. If you had been asleep before, you were definitely awake now. He panted heavily in your ear, brushing your hair aside to kiss the back of your neck.
“You’re gonna take me like this, juuuuust like this… There we go,” He said, picking up the pace as your walls squeezed him tightly.
You gripped the pillow under you, slightly cringing at the wet squelching sound your pussy made every time Katsuki slammed into you. Your noises only encouraged him to please you further. The sensation was overwhelming for him, his mouth finding your shoulder and biting hard enough to break skin. You let out a guttural moan, his tongue darting out to trace and soothe the bite. You felt yourself getting close, bringing your hips up to meet his as he thrusted into you.
“Suki please…”
“Fuck baby like that, letting me fuck so easily…Asleep or awake you’re so eager to please..”
Katsuki slipped his hand under you, his fingers finding your clit once more, bringing you towards the edge.
“Fuck Kats… Im close!”
“Cmon, give it to me, be good and give it to me..”
Your walls fluttered around him as he pounded into you, waves of pleasure washing over you. He continued to slam into you, chasing his own high. His thrusts grew slower, hips crashing into you once more as he came, filling you up with his warm cum. He collapsed on top of you, his cock inside your warmth.
“You’re so good to me, so so good. I make you feel good? You like it when I fill you up?” Katsuki said in between kisses, his tongue prodding the inside of your mouth filthily. You nodded dumbly through your post-orgasmic haze.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you whined at the warmth leaving you. He trailed kisses along your back, ending near your throbbing cunt.
“Kats? What’re you doin'?” You questioned sleepily.
“Shhhhh…Wanna taste ya’…”
He settled himself between your legs once more, continuing till the early morning shone upon you both.
lowkey first time writing smut, and first time writing for katsuki so lmk what you think!!
As always, submissions and inbox are open, and please repost and like if you enjoyed!!
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Another best friend!Simon blurb straight from the drafts :D Just y’all teasin’ and flirtin’ a bit bc why not in these trying times?
cw: dark/morbid joke (that I found on the internet…oof. sorry) delivered by best friend!Simon, use of y/n once, rando character who is not apart of tf141 included briefly.
—————
”How did you not find that funny?” You asked in astonishment. Your eyes were locked onto your best friend’s as your laughter at Kyle and your coworker—Mira’s—shenanigans died down.
“‘M not immature,” Simon answered gruffly. The slight upward turn of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
You pursed your lips in response and shot him a playful glare, grumbling under your breath. “More like you lack a sense of humor…”
Simon leaned forward, forearms on the table as he stared into your soul. “What was tha’ ‘bout my sense of humor?” He challenged, the conversations of your other friends fading into the background as you zeroed in on him.
”I said,” you started, leaning in to match his energy. “It’s lacking, love.”
He didn’t bother trying to hide his smirk that time. “You like my jokes.” He said it like a statement, fully confident in his ability to make you laugh.
”I don’t.” Liar.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Tha’ right?”
You perked up at the hint of a challenge and leaned even closer. The distinction between his warm brown irises and slightly blown pupils even more clear at this proximity.
“Go on then. Make me laugh.”
At this point, the rest of the table was watching with interest. They were used to the antics of you two. Simon and you had quickly grown close after your introduction to the group a few months back. It was hard to find one of you without the other in a group. Simon going as far as leaving a hangout when he heard you were sick. You both knew you’d do the same for him.
He was locked in on you now, eyes never wavering. ”Alrigh’.” A thoughtful pause. “How do you stop a baby from chokin’?”
“What?” This felt less like the start of a joke and more like the end of a CPR certification exam. But this was Simon you were talking to…There had to be something—
”Let go of its neck.” There was another pause before you heard the deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Heh heh heh.”
The group looked at him in horror. You pretended to also be appalled before the urge to laugh overcame your efforts. It was his delivery and that wheeze of his. Got you every time. You couldn’t help it as you burst out laughing—even harder than before, causing the group to now look at you crazy.
“Y/N!” Kyle protested at your outburst. You tried to cover your mouth to quell your laughter when Simon’s hand shot out to stop you. His grip was firm on your wrist. “Don’t shy away now, love. Let me hear ye.”
You glanced at his large hand on your arm—vision blurred by tears. Your other hand found its way on top of his hand as you unsuccessfully tried to ground yourself and stop laughing. As per usual, Simon’s knuckles were rough under your fingers.
“Dry ass hands,” you managed to wheeze out between laughs. “Nice and warm, but dry as hell.”
Simon just rolled his eyes, still smirking and pleased from making you laugh harder than Gaz and Mira had.
“Don’t you ‘ave tha’ greasy shite wi’ ye?” He huffed out, looking at you expectantly like a properly trained young man used to your lectures on proper skincare.
“It’s not greasy. It’s moisturizing.” You corrected with a smile, using your free hand to dig the lotion out of your bag and apply some to his knuckles. As much as he liked to complain, you had a feeling he secretly enjoyed it. If his half lidded eyes and small grunts of approval had anything to say about it.
“Anyone else want any?” You offered while rubbing it in on his hand—your fingers slipping over his skin and between his fingers until the cream was all worked in.
As if on autopilot, Simon proffered his other hand to you like a good boy. Didn’t even have to ask him to. He definitely enjoyed it.
You pretended not to see it and went to put the lotion away.
“Oi.” Simon looked offended.
You shot him an innocent look. “What?”
“Wot ‘bout my other hand?”
You played dumb. “Oh. My bad, Si. Here. Hold out your other hand, I’ll give you some more and you can rub it in yourself.”
He slid the hand you just moisturized under the table out of sight. “Can’t you do it?”
“Why? Can’t you?”
Simon shot you a look that said ‘quit playing.’ A warning. You almost broke but remained strong and waited for a verbal response.
He sighed. “C’mon love. Don’t wanna do it m’self.”
“Why not?” You responded, pulling another frustrated look from him.
“Like it better when you do it. You know tha’” He stared you down until you took his other hand in yours and did it for him. He had the audacity to grin as you massaged his hand. Content and borderline smug.
”Aye. I’ll take some if it also comes with the massage.” Johnny piped up, holding out his hands. Simon swatted them away.
“Jus’ f’me.”
A teasing smile settled on your lips. Your turn to be content and borderline smug. “Think you’re special or something?”
His eyes held yours intensely as you felt your skin grow warm.
”Tell me ‘m not. I dare you.”
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, caught all the way off guard as the rest of the table snickered at your facial expression.
He chuckled to himself—a knowing smirk on his face—before flicking your nose, suspiciously affectionate. “S’cute. Like a fish ou’ of water.”
You recovered from being stunned to flip him off before sitting back with an indignant huff.
Simon chuckled again. “Real mature, swee’eart.” The sarcasm was thick.
”Yea well, if you want mature, talk to Kyle.” You quipped back.
Kyle put his hands up in surrender, wanting no part in whatever this was. Simon’s stare didn’t falter from your face. “Never said I wanted it.”
You flicked your eyes back to his, a soft smile on your lips. His eyes briefly darted to clock the action before meeting your eyes again. You spoke up, “Yea?”
The Civilian's Field Guide to Task Force 141 pt. 9
The Power Wash Incident || (Masterlist)
@grecianfilipina: “That and suburban au, that i think so fondly of i imagine them when i play powerwash simulator bc fhe stance icons are absolutely war game "stand/crouch/prone" and i just. Imagine Ghost in sniper position trying to powerwash under the porch.” 🫡
You had learned, against your will and better judgment, that there were different kinds of ambulance arrivals.
There was the screaming, light and siren wailing kind, which meant someone somewhere was having the worst day of their life. Then there was the slow kind, the funeral crawl through traffic with the driver and the EMT in the back maintaining the carefully blank facial expression of two people who had just been informed, via a 911 call, that a grown adult had been sitting on knee pain for three months and decided today was the day to summon emergency services
And then there was the particular kind now idling in front of the house across the street: no sirens, paramedic standing in the yard with the exhausted posture of someone who had already been spiritually defeated before the vehicle went into park.
You stood on your front porch in pajama pants and robe, holding a coffee mug that had gone lukewarm in your hand, and stared across the street at the four men you had privately begun referring to as the Cul-de-Sac Cryptids.
Price sat on the curb, soaked from beard to shoes, elbows on knees, looking like a divorced dad who had just lost custody of both common sense and a garden hose. Kyle was standing beside him with an ice pack pressed to his jaw and the twitching mouth of a man fighting for his life against laughter. Ghost stood near the mailbox, arms folded, mask damp, boots muddy, silently watching the paramedics.
And Soap was on the back step of the ambulance.
Soap was wrapped in a blanket.
Soap had one eye swelling, his hair plastered to his forehead, grass stuck to his cheek, and the expression of a man who had been through something deeply stupid and considered it character building.
He spotted you watching, lifted two fingers, and called out with genuine cheer, “Mornin’!”
The paramedic currently shining a penlight in his good eye turned her head just enough to give you a look that said, with perfect clarity, Do not speak. Do not ask questions. Pretend you are a houseplant.
Against your better judgement, you took one sip of coffee and asked, “Why is there an ambulance?”
Nobody answered right away. The four of them performed their usual post disaster ritual you'd begun to recognize over the past several months: the silent, intense eye contact meeting that you suspected involved telepathy wehre they voted on which version of events sounded least likely to result in them appearing the most incompetent, arrested, sued, or Pamela-from-HOA combusting on the sidewalk.
Price cleared his throat. Kyle looked at the ground. Ghost did not move. Soap smiled wider, which was always a warning sign.
“We,” Price said carefully, “were following HOA guidance.”
You lowered your mug and slowly turned your head to the side.
Pamela-from-HOA was standing on the sidewalk several feet away, arms crossed, visor crooked, lips compressed into a line so thin it could have sliced lunch meat. Behind her, Mr. Larkin from two houses down was holding half of a plastic flamingo. Just the legs. Nothing else. Pink plastic legs.
You looked back at Price. “HOA guidance.”
“Aye,” Soap said proudly from the ambulance. “To the letter.”
Ghost’s head turned toward him by approximately half an inch. Kyle’s shoulders started shaking harder.
You closed your eyes. You counted to three. Three was not enough. You counted to ten. Ten was also not enough, but you feared if you counted any higher, you would achieve enlightenment and float off the porch, leaving your body behind to deal with these men alone.
“What,” you asked, very slowly, “happened?”
They did the eye contact thing again. Pamela inhaled like a kettle reaching boil.
Soap opened his mouth but before he could speak, Price pointed at him without looking. “Don’t.”
Soap closed his mouth.
You looked at the driveway.
You looked at the driveway. Clean white stripes had been blasted across the concrete in overlapping, jagged patterns that suggested either modern art or a zebra having a seizure. The grass had been mowed in four competing directions like several people had tried to settle an argument with a lawnmower. One flower bed looked like it had been turned inside out and a small crater sat near the porch. Mulch had been redistributed onto the roof of the mailbox, giving it a festive, exploded pinata appearance. And across the cleanest stretch of driveway, someone had pressure washed a skull next to an impressively detailed penis.
“Start from the beginning,” you said.
Price exhaled through his nose like a man who had already accepted that this story was going to make him look stupid no matter how he told it.
According to Price- and you were using the phrase according to Price extremely loosely, because his version of events contained several suspicious pauses, one hard stare at Soap, and absolutely no explanation for why there was mulch on the roof- it had started normally.
Normal for them, anyway.
Which meant already cursed, on fire, or being investigated by at least one government agency.
Pamela-from-HOA had left the notice at 7:02 that morning, because Pamela did not believe in joy, mercy, daylight savings, or letting grass grow a quarter inch past regulation height, and was rumored among the neighborhood children to have been hatched rather than born.
Price had found the paper tucked into the door while retrieving the newspaper, read it once, read it again, and was working on a third read when Soap appeared behind him holding a bowl of cereal. "What's that?"
"HOA notice."
Soap crunched. “Bad?”
Price turned the paper around.
Soap leaned in, squinting. “Lawn maintenance required. Driveway staining. Visible weeds.” He looked up, offended on behalf of the house. “Visible weeds? That’s rude. They're just living their best life.”
Kyle came out next, holding coffee and already looking tired. “Pamela?”
“Pamela,” Price confirmed.
Ghost appeared last, silently, from absolutely nowhere, and looked at the notice.
The four of them stood on the porch and regarded their yard with the confidence of men who had collectively mowed a lawn maybe twice in their lives and were not about to let that stop them from having opinions.
“It’s green,” Soap said finally.
Kyle nodded slowly. “Mostly.”
Price narrowed his eyes. “Grass is meant to be green.”
“It is green.”
“There are some brown bits,” Kyle said.
Soap pointed his spoon at him. “That’s character.”
Ghost looked at the flower bed and said, “Plants are in the plant area."
“Exactly,” Soap said, pleased. “That’s where they go.”
Kyle looked at the driveway. “Driveways are supposed to be gray, right?”
Price looked at the driveway too. It was, technically, gray. Several grays. A whole color wheel of various grays. There were oil stains, tire marks, moss in the cracks, and one long rust colored streak from the week Soap had tried to “fix” a wheelbarrow with a wrench, his usual optimism, and zero understanding of the difference between wood screws and dry wall screws.
Price frowned. “It’s concrete.”
“So gray,” Soap said.
“Concrete gray,” Kyle agreed.
Ghost nodded once. “Normal.”
For thirty beautiful seconds, they stood there in full agreement that Pamela had lost her mind.
Then Kyle, unfortunately, looked across the street.
Not at their yard.
At everyone else’s.
Mr. Larkin’s lawn was trimmed so evenly it looked brushed. The yard was mowed in soft, identical lines. His flower beds had dark mulch tucked around bright flowers in tidy circles. The edge along the sidewalk was so crisp it looked cut with a ruler. Even his ugly pink flamingo stood in a neat patch of decorative stones, which somehow made it worse.
Kyle slowly lowered his coffee.
“Oh,” he said.
Price followed his gaze.
His expression shifted.
Not dramatically. Price was not a dramatic man. But something very small died behind his eyes as he looked from Mr. Larkin’s perfect landscaping to their own lawn, where one patch near the mailbox was taller than the rest by enough that a small woodland creature were probably living in it.
“Messy,” Ghost said.
Soap gasped. “Don’t take her side.”
“I’m not.”
“You called us messy.”
“I called the yard messy.”
“That’s our yard.”
“Then yes.”
Price folded the notice. “Okay lads. We are going to handle this like normal homeowners.”
Kyle immediately looked concerned. “Are we qualified for that, sir?”
“We own a home,” Price said. “That’s the main qualification.”
Soap raised his spoon. “Define normal.”
Price pointed at him. “No.”
And so, for approximately forty three beautiful minutes, they actually tried.
Price assigned tasks with the weary competence of a man who had once coordinated air strikes and was now applying those skills to crabgrass of all things. Ghost took the mower and cut lines so straight they could have guided small aircraft. Kyle followed behind raking up the grass clippings.
Soap was given the edger.
At first, Soap behaved. He edged the walkway with intense concentration, tongue caught between his teeth, safety goggles pushed up on his forehead until Price shouted, “Eyes,” and he rolled them down like a teenager being told to wear a seatbelt.
The edger whined and Soap stopped.
The edger whined again. This time, Soap's expression changed.
Kyle saw it from across the yard. “No.”
Soap looked up. “What?”
“Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.”
“I’m edging.”
“You’re bonding.”
“I’m no’ bonding.”
“So you're not about to call it ‘bonnie’ under your breath?”
Soap looked down at the edger with genuine fondness. “It is a wee bit bonnie.”
Price's eyes closed. "Johnny."
“What? I’m doing the chore.”
“You’re enjoying the chore wrong.”
Soap frowned. “How does a person enjoy a chore wrong?”
Ghost, from the side yard, said, “Like that.”
Soap pointed at him. “You stay out of this, Halloween.”
Ghost stared at him.
Kyle slowly lowered the rake. “Don’t call him Halloween when he’s holding machinery.”
“He’s always holding something upsetting. I cannae live my life around that.”
Price took the edger from Soap who looked betrayed. “I was using that.”
“You were flirting with it.”
“I was respecting its craftsmanship.”
“You were one rev away from naming it.”
Soap muttered, “Already named it.”
Price closed his eyes. “Of course you did.”
Things remained mostly under control until they reached the flower bed.
The notice said visible weeds needed to be removed. This should have been easy. Pull weeds. Put weeds in bucket. Done. A task so simple that toddlers in sun hats could do it with supervision and minimal property damage. They had gloves. They had a bucket. They had four grown men who had collectively survived actual gunfire. This should have been the easiest part of the entire morning.
Kyle crouched first, plucked a weed from the mulch, shook dirt from its roots, and dropped it into a bucket. “See? Easy.”
Ghost grabbed the next week and yanked. Half the mulch came with it.
Kyle stared at the small crater now forming where a weed used to be. “That was not gentle.”
“It resisted,” Ghost said.
“It’s a plant, Simon."
That was when Soap crouched on the other side and wrapped both hands around a thick dandelion that had likely been growing in the garden for years given its size, and pulled.
(This was the moment- you would later decide- where God turned his back on the neighborhood)
Nothing happened.
The dandelion stayed exactly where it was, roots apparently looped around the molten core of the Earth, presumably having survived multiple ice ages and was not about to be easily bested by a Scotsman with gardening gloves.
Soap's brow furrowed. "What the- "
Price looked up. "What?"
Soap adjusted his grip, planted one boot against the porch step for leverage, and pulled.
Still nothing.
Soap exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man whose pride had just been curb stomped by a plant. He stood up, peeled off his gloves with the slow, ceremonial dignity of someone about to commit a minor war crime, and announced, "Okay you wee smug bastard."
Ghost, without a word or any visible movement that should have allowed it, produced a trowel.
Kyle pointed. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Ghost said nothing. The trowel simply existed now, shiny and bright.
Soap’s eyes lit up like someone had handed him a live grenade wrapped in bacon. “Oh, you beautiful, beautiful bastard.”
“No,” Price said immediately.
Ghost handed it over anyway.
“Yes,” Soap breathed, accepting it like he’d just been knighted.
“Simon,” Price warned.
Ghost looked at him. “What?”
“Do not arm him.”
“It’s a trowel.”
“He once turned a soup ladle into a weapon. I am not taking chances with anything that has a handle.”
Soap was already on his knees, digging around the dandelion like he was performing an exorcism. Dirt flew in every direction. Mulch scattered like confetti. The hole went from “minor gardening” to “possible shallow grave” in under four minutes.
Finally with a wet sound, the dandelion came free. Soap rose slowly, lifting it overhead by the root like he’d just pulled Excalibur from the stone after a very long and stupid quest. The root system was biblical, like something that had been down there since the dinosaurs and had only now surfaced because it wanted to see what all the yelling was about.
He looked radiant. Victorious. Like a man who had stared into the abyss and the abyss had said “fine, take it, you absolute bastard.”
Ghost nodded once, slow and solemn, which was the highest praise from the man.
Soap turned the massive dandelion slightly so the root caught the morning light. “Who’s the weed now, ye stubborn bastard?”
That was when Kyle, unfortunately, pointed out that the driveway still had stains.
Price looked at the notice again. “Driveway staining.”
Soap perked up like someone had offered him a puppy. “We’ve got the pressure washer!”
Price looked at him. “We agreed never to speak of the gutter incident.”
“That was vertical! This is horizontal. Much harder to fall off of.”
(You interrupted him here to exclaim horrified. "You bought a pressure washer??"
Price looked up at you from the curb, water dripping from his beard. "For the driveway."
"You bought a pressure washed after the grill???"
"That was fire." he said, like this was a reasonable defense.
"This is pressurized water!"
"I though water would be safer."
You stared at him before slowly turning your head towards the direction of their kitchen. The kitchen that had been flooded. The kitchen that had been flooded from the washing machine.
Price refused to meet your eyes.)
They'd dragged the pressure washer out of the garage and at first, it had gone... fine.
They’d started on the oil stains. Price had gone first with methodical, steady passes. The white stripes appeared. The oil lifted. For about four glorious minutes, it looked like four grown men might actually accomplish a task without summoning emergency services.
Then Ghost had taken the wand.
No one had seen him move. One second Price was handing it off, the next Ghost was holding it like he’d been born with a pressure washer in his hands. He didn’t say anything. He just started walking the driveway in a slow, deliberate pattern.
When he stepped back, there was a skull.
Not a cartoon skull. A proper, anatomically unsettling skull with eye sockets and teeth.
Kyle blinked. “Simon. What the fuck.”
Ghost had tilted his head, considering his work. “It was already starting to look like one. I just… finished it.”
Soap had gone very still.
Then his eyes had lit up like someone had plugged him directly into the sun.
“Oh,” he’d said, voice gone soft and dangerous. “It’s like that, is it?”
He’d taken the wand from Ghost with the reverence of a man accepting a sacred relic. Then he’d planted his feet, aimed at the cleanest stretch of driveway, and gone to work.
What emerged was not a skull.
What emerged was a dick.
An incredibly detailed dick. Veins. Shading. A level of artistic commitment that suggested Soap had either studied classical sculpture or spent an unfortunate amount of time on certain corners of the internet. It was pointing directly at the skull like it had something to prove.
Kyle had made a noise like a dying seagull. “Johnny."
Soap had stepped back, beaming. “It’s art.”
“It’s a cock and balls on our driveway.”
“Aye, but it’s a good one.”
Price had pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked like he was trying to perform self surgery. “Johnny.”
“What? It balances the skull. Yin and yang. Cock and bones.”
Ghost had nodded once, solemn. “Compositionally sound.”
Kyle had lunged.
It was not a graceful lunge. It was the lunge of a man who had seen the future and the future contained HOA fines and Pamela having an aneurysm on their lawn. He grabbed for the wand. Soap, true to form, did not let go. They’d wrestled for it like two toddlers fighting over the last juice box, only the juice box was a piece of machinery capable of stripping paint at twenty feet.
The wand had jerked.
A high pressure jet had caught Price square across the chest.
He’d stood there for a second, dripping, beard now doing its best impression of a wet dog, and said, very calmly, “Johnny.”
Soap had looked at the wand in his hands like it had betrayed him. “That was an accident.”
Then Kyle had yanked the wand away, turned it on Soap, and sprayed him.
“That,” Kyle had said, “was on purpose.”
Soap had sputtered, wiped water out of his eyes, and grinned like a man who had just been given permission to start a war.
What happened next was difficult to explain to someone who had never seen four men who moved like they’d been trained to clear buildings apply those same skills to a pressure washer in a suburban driveway.
Ghost had simply… vanished.
One second he was standing there. The next he was behind the mailbox, and the wand was in his hands again- though Gaz would not be able to tell anyone how it vanished from his hands-, and he was laying down precise, controlled bursts that forced Soap to take cover behind the porch steps.
Soap had responded with what could only be described as suppressive fire. He grabbed the hose connected to the spigot on the side of the house, turned it on and produced wide, sweeping arcs of water that turned the driveway into a slip-n-slide and sent mulch flying in every direction. He was laughing. Loudly.
Kyle had attempted a flanking maneuver around the oher side of the house, using the flower bed (now a crater) as cover. He’d made it three steps before Soap tagged him in the back with a blast that knocked him forward into the grass.
Price had tried to be the adult. He’d raised both hands and said, “Lads- ” at which point Ghost had hit him in the legs from behind the mailbox and taken him out at the knees.
Price went down hard, water spraying off him in a fine mist as he landed on his ass in the wet grass. For a second he just sat there, blinking, beard dripping, the last shreds of his dignity evaporating into the morning air.
Then Ghost reappeared, wand still in hand, and gave a single, deliberate nod toward Soap.
Soap’s grin went feral.
“Oh aye,” he said, already moving. “Team up it is.”
After that, all adulthood ended.
Gone.
Evaporated.
The four of them became children.
Not even clever children. Not even coordinated children. Just large, wet, overgrown boys in a front yard, screaming accusations and inventing rules mid-crime.
What followed was the kind of coordinated assault that would have been impressive if it hadn’t been happening with a pressure washer in a suburban driveway at eight thirty on a Saturday. Ghost vanished again, this time circling wide toward the side of the house, laying down precise little bursts that kept Price pinned behind the still-broken-wheelbarrow.
Soap, meanwhile, was swinging the hose in wide, chaotic arcs and bellowing, "Suppressing!"
Kyle tried to rally. He scrambled up from the grass, water streaming off him, and pointed at Price. “Sir, we can still- ”
Ghost tagged him in the shoulder from somewhere near the porch. Kyle yelped and went down again.
Price pushed himself up on one elbow, soaked to the skin, and tried one last time for authority. “Lads, this has gone far enough- ”
Soap hit him square in the chest with the hose. “Nae talking! Only drowning!”
Price made a noise that was half sigh, half war cry, and lunged for the pressure washer wand hose close to ther machine. He got his hands on it and yanked and the wand went flying through the air and skidded across the yard. Kyle, seeing an opening, rolled behind the crater that used to be the flower bed and shouted, “Cover me!”
They almost made it.
Ghost materialized like some kind of damp cryptid, appeared behind Price, and kicked the back of his knee. Price went down again. Kyle made a break for the wand, but Soap was already there, hose in one hand, stolen pressure washer wand in the other that he tossed back to Ghost, laughing like a man who had achieved enlightenment through pure, unfiltered gremlin energy.
“Two on two!” Soap crowed. “Fair fight!”
“Nothing about this is fair!” Kyle shouted, dodging a blast from Ghost that nearly took his eyebrows off.
What happened next was less a fight and more a suburban war crime in slow motion.
Ghost provided overwatch from the mailbox, precise little taps that forced Price and Kyle to keep their heads down. Soap laid down suppressive fire with the hose while advancing, cackling every time one of them slipped on the wet concrete. At one point he actually shouted “Flanking maneuver!” and went around the side of the house while Ghost kept Price pinned.
Kyle tried to counter flank. He made it as far as the crater before Soap popped up from behnd the porch like a jack-in-the-box.
“Got ye!” Soap yelled, and swung the hose.
Kyle ducked and rolled, popping up by the machine and grab the hose much as Price had done and yank the wand out of Ghost's hands. Soap, still laughing, turned back just in time for Kyle to spin and blast him directly in the face at point blank range.
The jet caught Soap square between the eyes.
He made a sound like a surprised cat. His feet went out from under him on the wet concrete. He stumbled backward, arms windmilling, still holding the garden hose like it might save him, and went down hard into the crater that had once been the flower bed.
There was a wet, final sounding thump.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Soap’s head popped up over the edge of the hole like a very damp, very offended prairie dog. One eye was already swelling. Mulch and grass were stuck to his face. He looked like a man who had just lost a fight with the earth itself.
Kyle stood over the crater, wand still in hand, breathing hard. “You good?”
Soap blinked up at him, water and dirt running down his face. “I’m in the grave.”
“You fell in the hole you dug for the dandelion.”
“Aye,” Soap said, voice slightly dazed. “Poetic.”
That was when Pamela-from-HOA arrived.
There are moments when every living creature knows, deep in its bones, that it has been caught. A toddler with both hands in the cookie jar. A dog standing beside an overturned bin, tail between its legs, pretending it had nothing to do with the trash now on the floor. And four grown men in a front yard, soaked to the skin, surrounded by gardening tools, flying mulch, a crater that used to be a flower bed, and the unmistakable wet outline of a gloriously detailed cock and balls etched into their own driveway.
All four of them froze exactly where they stood.
Pamela stopped at the end of the drive and looked like she was seeing a crime scene. She inhaled through her nose sharply.
“What,” she said, voice trembling with civic rage, “is that?”
All four men looked at the driveway. More accurately they looked at the skull and dick and balls.
Price cleared his throat. “Driveway cleaning.”
Pamela’s left eye twitched so hard it was probably visible from space. “That is not driveway cleaning.”
Soap, still in the crater, raised one finger. “Technically, it is the cleanest part of the driveway now. So. Mission accomplished?”
Kyle made a noise like he was choking on his own soul and turned away so he wouldn’t have to witness whatever happened next.
Pamela’s head turned toward Soap with the slow, mechanical precision of a turret acquiring a target.
Price said, very quickly, “He’s concussed.”
Soap frowned. “I’m no’ concussed yet.”
“Yet?” Pamela repeated, the word landing like a guillotine.
Nobody liked how that sounded.
She began writing on her clipboard with the violent little scratches. “This is a violation. Multiple violations. Possibly creative violations.”
Ghost tilted his head, studying the dick again like it was modern art. “Creative?”
“Do not take that as a compliment,” Price muttered.
Pamela’s pen stabbed toward the crater. “And what, exactly, is that hole?”
Soap, panicking slightly, said, “Gardening.”
“You excavated a grave in your flower bed.”
“It was a very stubborn weed,” Soap said, defensive. “Had to send in a team.”
Pamela’s pen hovered. Her mouth opened.
That was when Mr. Larkin came outside.
Mr. Larkin, two houses down, proud owner of the single ugliest pink flamingo in the entire state. The thing was faded, one eye missing, leaning at an angle that suggested it had seen things no lawn ornament should ever witness. Everyone hated it. The postman hated it. The neighborhood kids threw rocks at it when they thought no one was looking. You were pretty sure even Mr. Larkin had considered “accidentally” backing over it with his car at least twice.
And Soap, operating on the same survival instincts as a sugar-feral ten year old who had just been asked who broke the vase, whispered, “Distraction.”
Price’s head snapped toward him. “No.”
Soap was already lifting the garden hose.
Price lunged for it.
Kyle lunged for Soap.
Ghost, trying to move the pressure washer wand out of the splash zone, stepped directly on the hose and the hose jerked like a live snake, kicking sideways in Kyle’s grip.
Kyle shouted, “I don’t have it- !”
Price shouted, “Turn it off- !”
The pressure washer fired.
The blast screamed across the yard, missed Pamela by a generous six feet, and struck Mr. Larkin’s flamingo square in the torso with a sound like a plastic skeleton being stepped on by God.
There was a sharp crack, and the flamingo body launched backward into Mr. Larkin's garden like it had been shot out of a cannon.
The legs stayed exactly where they were.
For one perfect, terrible second, nobody moved.
Soap whispered with genuine reverence, “Clean shot.”
Pamela’s pen snapped in half.
Which brings you back to the present where the paramedic was trying, and failing, to get Soap to follow her finger. Soap followed it badly.
“Sir,” the paramedic said, voice flatter than the driveway dick, “please stop looking at your friend every time he laughs. I need to check if your brain is still inside your skull.”
Kyle turned away, shoulders shaking so hard he had to brace a hand on the ambulance.
Soap pointed at him with the hand that wasn’t currently being used to hold an ice pack to his face. “He’s making faces at me.”
“I am not,” Kyle said, absolutely making the most obvious faces a grown man had ever made in public.
Price looked like he had aged twelve years since breakfast and was now considering early retirement on medical grounds. Ghost stood slightly apart, holding the severed body of Mr. Larkin’s flamingo under one arm like it was evidence in a very stupid crime.
You rubbed your forehead. “You guys got an HOA notice.”
Price nodded, water still dripping from his beard.
“And your response was to start a water fight.”
“Not intentionally,” Price said.
“You pressure washed Soap into a hole he dug himself.”
Ghost said, “Accident.”
“You decapitated Mr. Larkin’s flamingo.”
Ghost lifted the pink plastic torso slightly. “Also accident.”
Soap raised his good hand. “I’d like it noted for the record that the flamingo was ugly.”
Mr. Larkin, now standing nearby with the two flamingo legs tucked under one arm like firewood, said, “It was.”
Pamela snapped, “That is not the point, Harold.”
Mr. Larkin looked down at the legs. “No, but it helps.”
The paramedic pressed the ice pack back against Soap’s swelling eye with the gentle firmness of someone who had done this too many times. “Please stop talking.”
Soap mumbled around the ice pack, “Can’t promise that, hen.”
You rubbed your forehead harder.
The paramedic sat back on her heels with a sigh that came from somewhere around her soul. “Technically you’re fine. Keep an eye on him. If he gets worse- confused, nauseous, dizzy- take him in."
Everyone looked at Soap.
"What."
"That's his baseline," Kyle whispered.
Soap tried to kick at him. The paramedic caught his ankle without even looking and pushed it back down. “No. Ice the eye. Rest. No strenuous activity. No more…” She looked around the war zone that used to be a front yard. “Whatever the hell this was.”
Soap nodded solemnly. “No more gardening.”
“No,” you said. “No more water. At all. For you.”
He looked wounded. “All water? Even drinking?”
“For you? Yes. Dry showers from now on. Sponge baths only. You’ve lost water privileges.”
Kyle snorted so hard he had to turn away again.
Soap pointed at him with the ice pack. “He started it.”
Kyle pointed back. “You hit Price first!”
“It was an accident!”
“You laughed while you did it!”
Price stepped between them with the haunted patience of a man who had said stop touching your brother in a grocery store too many times. “Enough.”
Ghost, from his position by the mailbox, said calmly, “Kyle did start it.”
Kyle’s head whipped around. “Et tu, Simon?”
Soap threw both arms out like he’d just been vindicated by the universe. “THANK YOU.”
Ghost added, without changing tone, “Soap made it worse.”
Soap’s arms dropped. “Betrayal. In my hour of need.”
Price rubbed his forehead like he was trying to erase the last hour from existence. “Nobody is innocent here.”
The paramedic looked at you, then at the four of them, then back at you. “Are they always like this?”
You looked at the yard again.
At the half mowed lawn that looked like it had been styled by four different drunk people having an argument. At the crater that now had Soap shaped indentations in it. At Pamela furiously photographing the driveway dick from multiple angles with the trembling righteousness of someone building a case for the Hague. At Mr. Larkin still holding the flamingo legs and looking, if you were being honest, mildly relieved. At Soap, wet, swollen, and smug as a cat that had knocked over a vase. At Kyle, failing so hard not to laugh. At Ghost, silent and damp, with a single piece of mulch stuck to the side of his mask. At Price, the only one who looked like he understood that adulthood had been murdered in this driveway and he had been the one holding the weapon.
“No,” you said honestly. “Sometimes there’s fire.”
katsuki with his fussy kitty hybrid who insists on giving him a thorough tongue bath every time he comes back from patrol because he smells too much like izuku or eijirou. typically, licking the side of his face makes him cringe but he’ll only pull you closer, scratch behind your ear and call you his good kitty.
sometimes he thinks you might drive him insane — you hiss at guests you aren’t to keen on ( which does make you an excellent judge of character ), you leave small creatures in soft blankets and linen for him to find because you do love katsuki even if you turn your nose u at him. you hide and prowl silently and somehow manage to tear off the bell collar he’d gotten you. you’ll put all your weight on his chest if you ever catch him lying down.
you’ve also got a crazy suckling issue ( something to do with weaning when you were young ) — so you’re always pawing at his sweat pants and sucking on his cock to help get to sleep or for comfort. more often than not, you’ll curl at the end of his bed each night… only for bakugou to wake up half hard with the crotch of his sleep pants completely soaked through with saliva. purring loud through the quiet night.
he doesn’t push you away, just has his fingers caress their way to the back of your head in order to hold you still. shuffles all the fabrics down to grasp at his cock and carefully guides his tip past the gentle drooly opening of your lips tiredly to help you along.
“atta girl, now watch your teeth.” he rasps, voice roped together by sleep.
you do as told, chest rumbling in content — easing back on the fangs that graze his shaft if you’re not mindful.
bakugou oftentimes pretends it’s a hassle to have a clingy cat like you, one who ruins the sofa and the walls and would rather scratch him that the perfectly respectable and expensive scratching post he had sought out just for you. though, when you look up at katsuki in the night, mouth full of precum and drool, pupils eclipsing the colour in your eye from how much they’ve dilated — katsuki doesn’t mind it so much.
𝜗𝜚 you’re keigo’s physician, coming over to check on him while he’s in rut
• keigo takami x f!reader
cw ~ rutting!hawks, avian specialist!physician!bird nerd!reader, reader wears glasses (stereotypical nerd? i wear glasses so it’s okay), smut;; handjob, painful erection, ballplay?, feral talk from kei, excessive precum + keigo cums a lot, facial ?, reader gets almost intoxicated off pheromones, so i guess mild dubcon, most likely inaccurate things ab wing anatomy though that parts not focused on.. (am i getting better at this)
wc 4.4k (i genuinely don’t know how that happened)
You breathed deeply before grabbing the keys and unlocking the door—rushing yourself in and swiftly closing it behind you.
“Takami?” you called out. You automatically made the mistake of breathing in too quickly, getting hit hard by the strong musky air that filled this entire house.
The warmth was what bothered you, but you were familiar with this scent. Not with how especially potent it was today—but it wasn’t new. Though you’d been warned about this years ago, and told to get a mask to protect yourself from the damn near drugs this man produced. You’ve been fine, though. How bad could things get? You’d get a little dizzy after too long, but you could deal.
You walked toward the coffee table, putting down your bag and looked over to the hallway to see your giant, shirtless patient.
“Ah. Trying to scare me?” You grinned at him as he stared at you blankly, before taking heavy steps to sit on the couch.
“Not even gonna smile for me?” You fake pouted. “Is it that bad?”
He looked at you, eyes piercing through yours, before sighing. “Y’don’t even know.” he rasped.
“Actually, I do, very much. And why are all the windows shut? You know I told you the fresh air is good.”
“The city smells like shit.”
“If any normal civilian walked in here, they’d tell you this house smells like shit.”
“Smells like me.” he huffed the correction.
“It smells like sex.” You giggled, slipping off your white jacket and walking over to hang it. “Come on. Let me open one window. You know this isn’t very good for me either.”
“…You’re bothered?” he muttered, lifting his head.
“Oh, no. It just makes me sort of drowsy. Y’know, your pheromones are meant to be attracting another… half-human… half-bird… partner. I’m just me. You’re suffocating, almost.”
He looked at you for a long while, before sending a large feather to open a window behind him. You scowled at his wings as they spread, the state of them a horrible sight. “You’re a mess,” you groaned, quickly walking up to him and taking a closer look. “Ugh. My babies...”
You saw his head flick in your direction, most likely glaring.
“Don’t look at me like that.” you murmured. “Yeah. I’ll be here for a while. You’re wrecked.” You turned back to the table, searching through your bag and grabbing the thermometer and flashlight.
You put the thermometer in his mouth and grabbed his face as you shined the light in his dark eyes. “Pupils heavily dilated…” you looked down at the thermometer. 41°C. Which would take a human to the emergency room, but it’s around average for him during a rut. Still, very hot. You could see the glow on his skin from how he’d been sweating.
You took the tools back, taking out your notebook to write the information down, leaving it open on the table. “Can you stand up? Stretch them out for me?” you asked sweetly, your hands folded at your front.
He gave you another silent stare before he got up. He seemed to have grown about three inches taller again. He groaned, before obeying. His wings, as usual—despite being a mess, were still beautiful. Large enough to fill this whole living room, if he stretched properly. But he’s tense—he’s sensitive.
“Does it hurt?” you asked, getting closer and looking at the feathers closest to his back from the front.
“Aches.” he said.
“Yeah, cause you love cramping them to your back all the damn time,” you murmured, receiving a mean glare from him as a response. You looked at his bare chest, getting closer as you saw how defined his muscles had become. His entire body shifted during this time of year, trying to give him all the strength he’d need to bury himself in someone and breed them, of course, without a single chance for them not to be full of his seed.
That’s… vulgar, but unavoidably true. You’ve dealt with him like this for so long that nothing is embarrassing, or shocking. You really take everything scientifically now, knowing you’re here to care for him, and track his behaviors. Nothing more.
So, of course, as you told him to breathe deeply while you listened to his heartbeat, you couldn’t help looking down at the huge print in his sweatpants. You could see the entire outline of his cock, especially his swollen tip—that you were actually shocked to see wasn’t leaking as it usually would be. You noticed his growth down there, too. Just a bit longer, a lot thicker.
Again, some things you can’t ignore, you’ve grown to see as normal. That’s just something else to write down.
“Your heartbeat is… uneven. Irregular,” you mumbled, looking up at him expecting an answer. His heartbeat usually keeps a quickened, but constant pace when he’s like this.
He shook his head, putting it down toward you but keeping his eyes closed. “You…” he breathed.
“Me?”
“…Just… smell good..” he finished, followed by another heavy breath and a twitch from his wings.
You raised your brows, chuckling as you put the stethoscope away. “Impressive, that you can smell anything through your aroma in here.”
He lazily hummed in response, eyes opening quickly as he suddenly felt your hand on his chest.
“Sit down, and turn a little so I can see your back.” you said, turning and grabbing a small bottle of oil. He did so in silence.
You sat next to him, or… behind him, sort of—looking over his wings. Like his chest, his back muscles had gotten more defined as it had to adjust to the new weight of his wings.
“Have you been eating well?” you asked as you popped the bottle open.
He simply grunts in response as he shrugs his shoulders.
“Come on, what does that mean?” you groaned. Rut must be especially bad this time. “Have you eaten today?”
“No.”
“Takami.” you paused, as if he could see the expression on your face. “You have to eat after this. You’re so frustrating—your body has gained… like, fifteen pounds of pure muscle and you’re not bothering to eat? Then you get all groggy.” He stayed silent as you ranted to him about his own health.
You huffed before pouring a generous amount of oil into your hand, and balancing the bottle on your thigh, as you reached for the base of his wings. Old feathers were tangled between the growth of his new ones, his pin feathers especially matted back here.
As soon as the moisture touched him, he flinched—posture fixing from the cool sensation. He’d relax though, as you slowly worked through his feathers.
Shlick. The familiar sound filled the room as you massaged the oil into his rough coverts. You hummed, this process being so familiar it was comforting at this point.
As you’d reach his primaries on his right wing, he’d occasionally grunt or hum. Which was nice to hear, him getting more comfortable. Keigo deals with a lot when he’s like this, and of course this isn’t something that heals him—but it is a relief. Quite literally a weight lifted off his shoulders, which feels good to do for him.
You collected the old feathers you plucked out, placing them on the coffee table to later put away for inspection. You took the oil again, coating your hands and reaching the end of his left wing. Shlick as you firmly dragged the serum down a long feather. Inspecting it closer, you caught a crumbled old feather that was stuck just underneath. You let him go, reaching for the tweezers again.
Though, you realized that as you stopped touching his wings… that sound didn’t stop.
Shlick… Shlick… Shlick.
Each interval taking a few seconds before it came back again, just as loud—even wetter as it continued.
You almost thought you were going insane, that your hands were still moving on him or something—you literally looked at your arms to make sure—then looked down to see the muscle in Keigo’s shoulder blade moving. It was slight at first, and then got more apparent, along with his elbow slightly trembling as well.
You then remembered the way he was grunting and breathing earlier—you thought it was from the massage. You looked over his wings, and saw him enjoying a…different massage.
The waistband of his pants stretched down a bit, and his hand wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock—as he stroked himself with a hard grip. Every stroke up had a bead of pre-cum forming at his tip, and dripping down with his hand. His dick almost had a red tint to it with how swollen he was. It looked like it hurt.
“T…Takami…” you spoke softly after sitting back.
He didn’t stop, or slow down—you didn’t even catch a twitch in his feathers.
You weren’t… uncomfortable. Not really, honestly the main thing going through your mind now was the fact that you underestimated how he was doing today.
You have seen his cock before. A few times, the ache would get bad for him and you’d have to check and make sure it was just his hyper-arousal rather than something concerning. You’ve also caught him pleasuring himself before. The first time, it was enough to shake your professional persona, but it was easy to get over.
Keigo doesn’t get anything to really… deal with himself. He feels it’s a little odd to have women coming to deal with him when he’s like this—not only is it an weird feeling for the feral side of his mind, fucking someone who wasn’t his mate—but it just… wouldn’t… work.
Keigo’s uncontrollable during this time. He needs a partner. A mate. Someone he can call his woman, outside of his rut and as it happens. Someone he can have those long conversations with about how he’s going to need the help. How he’s going to need to fuck, and breed, and keep doing it until he the burning under his skin fades away—which will take longer than anyone expects.
That conversation about how it’ll be exhausting, how he could scare them—how he could hurt them—all of that.
You got that conversation too before you started working as his physician, and sure it… concerned you a little, but then after meeting him any worry about how he’d be during that time faded. You weren’t even nervous when you walked in during his first rut with you—also the first day where he really didn’t seem like himself—his body completely changed, bigger and tougher and really looking like a predator.
It’s because that bird-brained half of him had gotten comfortable with you. That side of him assigned you as someone who cares for him, makes him feel better, makes him fly better. You’re sweet and you’re understanding and you take your time with him. So, he could hardly get scary with you. He knew better, both sides of him.
You wouldn’t know it, maybe not even he did, but some part of him put that ‘mate’ title onto you.
With how you treated him so well, and the fact that you were the only person he saw during rut—he almost had no other choice. His mind needed something to cling to, and that became you.
Again, unbeknownst to you, you’d also make his ruts worse. He was seeing his mate almost every day and he couldn’t take her? Claim her? It was torture, just as it is now.
So, you’re here, sitting behind him as he’s desperately touching himself. What makes it different this time is that he’s doing it now, while you’re here. He’s doing this, and he knows you’re here, and he knows you know and he’s not stopping.
As mentioned before, you’ve seen him get boners while you worked. You’ve heard him say some feral lewd things to you and kept it pushing. You’ve walked in his home, hearing him loudly deal with himself in another room—but all those times there felt like there was a sort of barrier that didn’t make things weird.
There’s literally no barrier here. You hardly even knew what to say—what to do. Walk out? Well, that would make him instinctively try to chase you.
“Takami…” you spoke a little louder as you got up slowly. He still didn’t react. As you moved the bottle of oil onto the coffee table though, his wings twitched as he moved and sat back on the couch, now completely exposed to you and seemingly not caring as he kept stroking himself.
Now, you couldn’t look away from his cock as it faced you. Swollen wouldn’t cut it. He was completely engorged, a vein that went down from his tip pulsing with each strong pump. Strong wouldn’t cut it either, and your eyes widened as you saw the muscles in his arm deepen every time he went back down—just choking the thick base of his dick. You breathed deeply before you spoke again.
“K… Keigo…” you murmured, his name almost unfamiliar on your tongue. “I… I’m gonna be honest, I don’t… I—I feel like…” the words wouldn’t come to you. Every option of a sentence felt wrong.
He actually moaned then, and you watched his muscles tensed as he gripped himself impossibly harder, almost squeezing the precum out of him as it trickled down his inches.
“Hurts,” he grumbled, opening his eyes to look at you for a second before throwing his head back onto the couch. “Fucking hurts.”
“Yeah,” you breathed. “I know…”
The room went silent and felt hot, you started to wonder if his pheromones were getting to you now. All you could hear was both of your heavy breaths along with him stroking the sloppy mess of his shaft. His eyes were closed, his brows furrowed, every now and then gritting his teeth.
You swallowed, trying to do what you came to do. You’re meant to care for him.
“I… uhm, I have some suppressants here, Keigo, if it’s this bad for you. It could help with the… swelling—”
“No,” he rasped. “No drugs.”
“It’ll help you,” you argued, taking a small step toward him. “You’re… holding yourself too hard, you can hurt yourself like that, I’ll get—”
“Won’t work.” he cut you off, gripping his dick again as if just to concern you more. As he dragged his hand down to the base, he lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at you. “Need to breed.”
“…I know you do. You’re in pain. I can help it, I can make you feel better,” you insisted, feeling bad for sort of… lying to him. You knew those suppressants stopped working for him years ago. When he was a teen, they used to completely block out ruts. Eventually, they just turned into numbing pills for him, which kept the burning and the animalistic thoughts, and just made it impossible for him to get any relief. They also put him to sleep, which… sure, that’s something, until he wakes up.
He still didn’t respond to you. His hips twitched into his hands, and he started to groan more—and louder.
But then, he slowed down a bit, lazily lifting his head and staring at you. His gaze was intimidating, intentionally like he wanted to scare you. Well, he didn’t—as you were used to this—but he was trying.
“Make… make me feel better?” he asked roughly, repeating your words to him.
“Yes,” you said softly, thinking you were getting to him. “I’m here to do that, Takami. You can trust me.”
He seemed to try to keep his eyes on you, but they rolled back as he stroked himself again. Another moment of silence as he tended to his ache, before his gaze snapped back to yours.
“Then… do it,” he breathed. “Come. Touch me. Help me.” his voice cracked near the end, and you heard a small whine as his face contorted while his tip kept self lubricating.
You completely froze, breath hitching. Not knowing what to do at all. You did literally just say you would help him. And the way he’s doing it to himself is damn near scary.
But… What? A handjob?
You watched him as you couldn’t speak. Your patient, completely at the mercy of his biology. Your patient who got like this so many times around you, completely feral and desperate, and never crossing a line—and now he’s whining for it.
What line would this truly cross, though? You take care of him. You assist him with his issues that come with being half bird, and… this technically counts as one of them. You’re the only person in the world who sees him when he’s like this—who helps him.
You weren’t going to just let him suffer with this, not when he directly asked you.
You took a slow breath, adjusting your glasses with a steady hand. “…Okay..” you spoke softly.
You took a few steps, standing between his legs before kneeling down in front of him. Your hands were still greasy from the oil, but it wasn’t like it would do him any bad. He’s also already soaked in his own slick.
One of your hands finally wrapped around his cock, stretching your fingers wider than you expected. It was almost like he didn’t even feel your hands—he only reacted when he saw you touching him—his wings flinching closer to his back before he had to force them to relax again. His eyes were locked on yours.
He hesitated, before letting himself go and resting his hands on his thighs. You took your other hand, stacking it above the other.
“Grip… grip it tighter,” he rasped. You listened, looking up at him for approval but then he shut his eyes hard. “Tighter than that.”
He’d tell you this about two more times until you huffed against his length. “I’m.. going to hurt you...” you mumbled.
He opened his eyes, brows furrowing in frustration as he put his hand over yours and showed you exactly how he needed you to hold him. Just as you said, his hand hurt against yours and you couldn’t imagine that pressure on him feeling good—but, nonetheless…You held him that same way, getting a deep groan in response as his legs spread wider.
Your hands hesitated before they started moving up and down his length. Both following each other, before you started twisting them around him rhythmically.
He moaned, hips bucking into you and individual feathers twitching off his wings.
“Stop,” he suddenly grumbled, and you hovered before stopping. He sort of nodded his head as a signal for you to move, so you took your hands off of him.
A whine came from deep in his chest by the loss of contact. He grabs his waistband, tugging it down his legs, his lower half now bare. Your eyes automatically snapped toward his balls. Just as swollen as his cock, tightened up close and twitching as he grunted for you to continue.
You breathed, getting closer as your hands held him. You started stroking him, before his hand shot over both of yours again and crushed them under his grip. Again, completely unbelievable how this felt good to him, but you listened. You got a whimper in response, the muscles in his thighs shuddering.
You were sort of grateful by how empty your mind was right now. His pheromones were definitely doing something. Is this what the effect was supposed to be? Make someone’s mind blank, just willing to do whatever he needs them to? Fascinating.
Your eyes kept flicking toward the tight, swelling base of his length. It almost bothered you from your clinical view, how tight his balls were and the way they lightly pulsed with each stroke.
You didn’t want to speak, the words would have been awkward coming out of your mouth. Oh, can I touch your balls? You simply let your bottom hand drift every now and then, letting his pre just slightly get lower and lower to lubricate all of him, while you watched his reactions.
Then, you’d let your hand linger, your thumb rubbing against the skin between them before sliding back up. After a few more times, you fully moved your hand down, cupping them gently. They were hot and heavy, and you tried to stable your shaking fingers as you put just a little pressure on them.
“Ohhh, oh my god…” he moaned, his hips jerking up into you.
You almost smiled, so satisfied that he was feeling good. Your thumb and the pads of your fingers slowly kneaded into his throbbing sack. You found a rhythm, stroking him firmly and tending to his balls.
“Hurts… fucking hurts so b—aaad.” his words were slurred between whines, his hands gripping to the couch. You held him impossibly tighter, making him sob out a moan that had your hands hesitating against him. He sounded like he was in excruciating pain, honestly. “Keep… keep goin’… shit, hands feel s’fucking good…”
He placed his hand on top of yours again, this time thankfully not crushing your fingers under his. “Fuck… fuck, spit on me.”
“W—What?” you spoke quickly, hands stuttering against him again.
“Spit on it. Need your spit.” his gaze pierced into yours.
You frowned, looking away to think...
Well, actually…
If he needed it…
You lapped your tongue across the roof of your mouth, gathering spit and letting it dribble from your lips onto his tip.
“Oh my god, I need your cunt,” he whined.
“…Takami…” you muttered, your voice barely even coming out. You dragged your spit over his dick, watching him twitch as you did.
“Need to st—streetchh, mmmgh, stretch you out and… and use that cunt…”
“Not me,” you corrected quietly. “You don’t wanna do that to me.”
“I do, I fucking do—I need you,” he cried, now squirming under your touch. From the way his balls kept twitching in your palm, you could tell he was close. “Can’t… can’t cum if it’s not in your pussy. Wasting my seed in those fucking hands…”
You watched as his whole bottom half was literally tensing up from the way he was holding back his orgasm. He was very serious.
I mean, this goes back to the severe lack of relief he gets during his ruts. He jerks off when it gets bad, but that feral side of his mind very much hates wasting his sperm on anything but someone’s cunt.
“Waste?” you repeated quietly, making sure to keep that heavy pressure on his length, and your fingers massaging his balls. “Keigo… it’s… it’s not a waste.”
He could only groan deeply in response, the muscles in his thighs twitching. You knew the words he wanted to hear, and the words he needed to hear.
“You’re… using me right now,” you looked at him as you spoke, your glasses fogging with how you’d started panting (along with how you’ve been sweating for a while now.) “Using my hands. They’re… making you feel good… y-you’re… claiming them.” you gave him a firm squeeze at the base of his cock.
“Aaah, shit, making those hands all mine… gonna fucking paint them,” he whimpered. You knew those words would do him good. That’s exactly what he needs now. He wants to fill someone up, and claim them as his. Mark them—mark his territory.
“P—…Paint me then,” your wet hands sped up into a frantic pace over his length. “Paint my skin and cum for me.”
He couldn’t hold back for another second. His hips gave an uncontrollable, violent buck into your palms—his wings stretching out behind him, as his tip shot his cum everywhere. The second rope hit directly onto your glasses lens, you could almost hear the heavy splat against your face.
The strong scent hit you even harder than that, almost like honey right from the comb. A wave of bittersweet, animal musk instantly coated the back of your throat. It was like you could taste it on your tongue.
Oh, wait. That’s because you were.
Fuck, when it hit your glasses you gasped and opened your mouth in shock just as more splurted out of him again. A thick, extremely warm jet shot straight past your lips, hitting the roof of your mouth. With a gooey texture, and a deep pheromone sweetness that you could feel go straight to your brain. It was almost hard to swallow. Because of course you swallowed.
The whole scene was extremely sloppy, and messy. Your hands hovered over your glasses as you heard him moan and completely empty himself in front of you.
When it got quiet, you slipped your glasses off of your face, looking at him.
A mess, as expected. His own seed was splattered over his chest and the couch, and your hands, and your glasses—and just a sliver remained on your top lip. Without thinking, you licked it off. Then you met his eyes.
Low lidded, until he looked toward your glasses, and your nervous face. He groaned long, his hand suddenly sliding down his torso, shuddering—and you watched as his limp cock lifted back to its hardened state. The same as it was when he first started touching himself. Possibly harder, actually.
“Haah…” you let out a breath, surprised by how quickly that happened. You knew he could get boners back quickly, but… hardly even fifteen seconds had passed.
He simply looked in your eyes as you watched his flesh engorge, his veins fat and pulsing down the shaft again.
Your hand rested on your own chest, feeling your slowing heartbeat. Your lids were low, and now without the distraction of trying to make him finish, you realized just how out of it you were.
Realizing how hot this room was, the way you were covered in sweat. More importantly, realizing the aching pulse you felt between your legs.
It was intense, and you could only sit back and try to process what the fuck just happened. What was happening.
Your hand went over your mouth, trying to cover the way you were panting. You couldn’t control the whimper that came after that.
Keigo suddenly growled, making your eyes snap to him. He was taking slow, deep breaths and staring at you with big eyes.
“Mmmh… You smell so fucking sweet,” he grumbled. “Need to claim that wet cunt.”
Your thighs clenched together hard, the sudden friction only making it impossible to ignore the throbbing in your pussy. You were completely vulnerable to him now.
Well, you’re the one who decided to help him in the first place.
You’re the only one who can, so…
You should probably do your job.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. i’m sort of obsessed with this concept… might write more with it… anyway thankyou for reading! all interactions are so very much appreciated :)) also, happy happy pride month!! 🤍🪽
“fuck baby, just like that.” denki groans, leaning back on the couch as you bounce up and down on his cock.
“denki i just- mmf! denki ‘m so full.”
bang! the front door slams open and snap your neck, continuing to ride denki as his roommates walk in.
“shit.” kirishima covers his eyes, clicking the door shut behind him.
“damn.” sero tilts his head, watching the way your ass jiggles after each sticky smack.
“dude!” kirishima slaps a hand over sero’s eyes.
“sorry.” denki calls out. “left half the blunt in the ashtray.” his hands grab your ass, scooting lower and starts fucking up into you. “fuck baby.” spank!
“we’ll-”
“nghhh!” you toss your head back. “fuck denki, i’m gonna- ahhh!” you gasp, spine straightening as your orgasm washes through you.
“move your fuckin hand.” sero slaps kirishima’s hand away.
“light it and pass it.” denki looks over your shoulder.
“wha- now?” kirishima drops his other arm, trying to look anywhere but at you.
sero is already walking towards the ashtray and taking a seat next to the both of you. “what? denki’s room too dirty for you, sweetheart?” blunt between his lips as he lights it.
“nah, she couldn’t wait.” denki bucks up into you, reaching over as sero passes the blunt.
“shouldn’t you.. like cover up, man.” kirishima winces when you turn to him with a pout.
“don’t like lookin at me, kiri?” you reach for him and his cheeks flush.
“think he likes lookin at you too much.” denki chuckles. “go over there.” he lifts you off his dick and plops you down on kiri’s lap.
“dude!? i- ??” he holds his hands up and squeezes his eyes shut.
“wanna fuck her?” denki lulls his head to the side and you roll your hips.
“can i fuck kiri?” you whine at denki. “please?” you push your lower lip out.
“and what about me?” sero pouts his lips out.
“what do you think baby?” denki offers you a lazy smile. “wanna give my friends a ride?” he passes you the blunt.
“mhm mhm.” you nod quickly, taking a hit and pushing it back into denki’s hand.
you lean forward, pressing your lips to kiri’s and blowing the smoke in his mouth. sero and denki watch at the way kiri flushes under your touch as you shove your hands under his shorts. you whine when his cock pops out, already glistening with little beads of pre.
“‘s big.” you lean back and pump him once before lifting up on your knees.
“bet he’ll cum in 2 minutes.” sero chuckles, watching the way you slide kiri up and down your folds.
“nahh, i give him 5.” denki pushes sero’s chest.
“guys..” he groans as you sink onto his tip. “shut up.” his hands grip your waist as he looks up at you. “pretty. so pretty baby.” he nods as you take inch after inch.
“you’re a pretty baby too.” sero purrs in denkis ear, plucking the blunt out of his hand and dabbing it out in the ashtray.
“wha- hah! fuck sero.” sero’s hand wraps around denki’s cock
“forgot how squirmy you get.” sero thumbs at his underside. “she’s got you fuckin soaked.” he hums, pumping him faster.
you can’t decide if you want to look down at kiri as you suck him in or over at the way sero has denki’s hips jerking off the couch. kiri grinds his hips up and your attention falls to him, eyes fluttering as he repeats the movement. his hands grip your waist as he starts to fuck up into you, not letting you do any of the work.
“shit hanta.” denki can’t help the way he fucks up into sero’s hand.
“gonna cum before ei?” sero chuckles.
“shut up.” denki’s thighs shake.
“nghh!” you’re clinging onto kiri as he pounds up into you.
kirishima has you held tightly to his chest as he snaps his hips up onto yours. your pussy is strangling his cock, your lips brushing against his neck as you whimper right into his ear. his fingers harden into your skin and your walls flutter, thighs shaking, with one more harsh snap of his hips, you cum with a cry of his name.
“shitshitshit.” kiri holds you down on his thighs as he fills you.
you turn your head to the side and find denki sated, breathing heavy with cum all over his abs and sero slowly jerking himself. sero gives you a lazy smile and reaches out a hand to you and you lift off of kiri. sero helps you over to him and slides you right down onto his cock.
“got you all to myself.” he brushes your hair back.
“hanta.” your lashes flutter.
“hm?” he slowly starts to fuck you up and down.
“‘m so tired.” you rest your head on his shoulder. “just.. use me. please.”
“ohhh, i know baby.” he coos, trailing a hand up your spine.
sero scoots down until you’re laying on his chest and he can fuck up into you. each drag out and push back in has your toes curling, little puffs of air leaving your lips and splaying across his warm skin. you press kisses all over his neck, trembling in his arms, breath catching as an orgasm already bursts through you.
“s’okay. i got you.” he rubs your back when he feels the tears on his neck.
“feels s’good.” you’re practically limp in his arms.
you peek out of his neck and see denki staring at you with lidded eyes as he strokes himself. you blink past him and kiri is doing the same, lips parted and letting out little moans. sero bucks up into you and you bury yourself back into his neck.
“focus on me.”
your hands tangle in his hair, gummy walls spasming around him at his low words. he hits that one spot and you gasp, yanking on his hair and he grins. he pushes against it over and over until you’re cumming and whining as he starts to fill you.
“can’t move.” you’re limp against him.
“don’t gotta.” denki rubs your back.
“gonna clean you up real nice.” he hums.
instead of taking you to the bath, they take you to denkis room and lay you back on the bed. each taking turns sucking the cum out of you.
bang! the front door opens and snaps shut.
“denki!!! why does the apartment smell like sex?” you hear katsuki walking down the hall. “you idiots didn’t invite me?”
“kats.” you squirm.
“they make you cum?”
“mhm.” a nod of your head.
“they clean you up yet?” he looks at the way they have your legs spread wide.
“mm-mm.” you shake your head.
“wanna take a bath?” he grins when you nod your head.
╰ 18+ MDNI. getting tired while riding bf kirishima? don’t worry, he’s more than happy to do all the work!
“fuck—look at you,” kirishima sighs, throwing his arms behind his head to get a good look at you bouncing manically on his cock, pretty mewls slipping from your slacked jaw mixing with his own brutish sounds, “wish you could see what i’m seein’, doing such a good job for me.”
his praises cause you to choke back a delicious moan, long nails digging deep into his alabaster shoulders in an attempt to stabilize yourself in the euphoria your feeling, his flesh irritated and raised.
“can’t b-breathe,” you stutter, pace hesitating. it’s difficult to keep up with him, the intensity of your ass smacking into his thighs nearly knocks the wind straight from your lungs every plunge downward on his rock hard length, the skin slapping so loudly it echoes right off of the bedroom walls.
“you got it, can tell you’re close,” kirishima grins, thighs flexing beneath you, “squeezin’ my cock so fucking tight pretty girl, let yourself feel good.”
“feels like i can feel you inside my chest.” and you can. his inches pulsate snug inside your womb, ropes of iridescent precum slipping recklessly around your walls, the sappy combination of mixed fluids dripping down, down, down, to coat your sensitive inner thighs.
the room smells thick of sex and fluids, the animalistic routine ending up with you taking exactly what you wanted, hips rolling up and down his shaft to chase your nth high of the night.
“keep goin’ just like that babydoll—fuck!” he curses, voice gravely with an intensity that makes you clench, his cock stirring deep in your squishy walls.
his hand falls down to the fat of your hip, gripping and prodding the flesh like his own custom stress ball, an occasional soft slap landing on your ass cheek just so he can watch you gasp, kissing the sounds clean of your mouth.
unfortunately for you, it’s so damn laborious to keep up with the pace you unintentionally set, the pro hero’s stamina easily allowing him to go all night deep inside of you. a refractory period practically non-existent with a refusal to give up anytime soon, the strong man barely breaks a sweat as he enjoys the ride, his hand effortlesssly guiding you to rock back and forth.
your exhausted, inner thighs burning, back aching. kirishima can tell, your feverish movements halting for a gentle roll of your hips, sticky cunt gliding against the dark patch of hair against his pelvis, body lacking stimulation.
“eiji! i can’t! need your help,” you beg, cute fucked-out face warbling down at him in a pitiful plea, hips fully coming to a halt.
“ahh of course you do,” clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he grunts low, testing the waters with a big fat ‘slaaap’ of his hips, your body almost bouncing off his muscular thighs.
“eiji—oh fuck!” squeaking at the feeling of his candy-red cockhead swabbing past your g-spot and ‘round your tough cervix, you grow breathless—unable to do anything besides sit there and take it.
you gasp at the feeling each time he plops you down, his strong body easily holding you up as if you're a featherweight, throbbing inches smooching your gummy spot so perfectly you’re beginning to see a multi-colored array of pinpoint stars and patterns.
“you like that? like makin’ me do all the work?” he laughs at your cockdrunken state, blown out vermillion eyes raking up and down your soft frame, watching your tits bounce with every snap of his thighs.
“f-feels so much b-better when you do it,” your toes are beginning to curl, the metaphorical rubber band ready to snap in your core, a white-hot heat flashing through your veins.
“love it when i use you, is that it?” he’s teasing you now, a calloused thumb fumbling with the soft velvet between your sensitive folds, rubbing small circles to your sensitive clit, the motions making you hiccup. “should’a just asked me—fuckkk! could have gave ya what you wanted wayyy earlier babydoll.”
“mpfph! yes— b-but—”
“—but what baby? cock got ya dumb?”
it’s pitiful, the way he’s so easily able to turn you into a puddle of lust in his hands, your body at his disposal to fuck into, knowing each time he will give you what you want as long as you tell him exactly what it is.
“use your words ‘n tell me how you’re feelin’.”
nodding, you answer him, lips quivering as you try your best to form a coherent sentence, the words sounding almost silent from the sounds of soaked flesh smacking. “‘s too much!”
he places a sloppy kiss to your open mouth, tongue trailing down to bite the bare flesh of your neck, his ivory shark teeth piercing the skin. “said you needed my help didn’t ya? now you’re stuck takin’ whatever i’m givin’ you sweetpea.”
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki always wondered what the hell his father saw in his old hag of a mother. it takes twenty years, a nasty fight with you, a near-death experience, and a trip to the hospital before he finally gets it
── ✶ word count: 5.8k words ; my drabbles always do this bro
── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou ; established relationship ; arguing ; (temporary) relationship troubles ; injuries + villain attacks + hospitals (bakugou) ; tame angst with a happy ending! ; communication + resolving arguments ; bakugou’s father makes an appearance ; fluff and banter at the end ; masterlist.
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ at the end of the day i will never not be a sucker for the trope where u argue just before a major life threatening incident occurs
It’s 9:32 PM when Katsuki begrudgingly leaves his patrol area and finally calls it quits for the night.
Patrol was supposed to end an hour and thirty-two minutes ago, but he’s been dragging his feet ever since. Taking the long route. Responding to calls that technically aren’t under his jurisdiction. Circling blocks he’s already cleared twice. Anything to kill time. It’s only when Kirishima actively tells him to get the fuck out and stop interfering with his villain count for the night that Katsuki finally accepts defeat and ends his workday.
Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.
If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume.
And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.
He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.
“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.
Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.
“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”
“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.
“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”
The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.
“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”
His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.
Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”
Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.
“Yeah, that’s real mature.”
“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”
“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”
“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”
“Well, I wasn’t!”
“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”
Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red.
“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”
Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”
The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet.
“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”
You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before.
“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”
“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”
“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”
“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”
“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”
Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special.
But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.
“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”
“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”
“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”
It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you.
“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”
“Katsuki—”
“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.
“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure.”
“I was angry—”
“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”
Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.
“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”
“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”
“That’s not—”
“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”
“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”
He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”
His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”
“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”
Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
────────────────────────
Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly.
“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”
Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”
“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”
“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”
“Well, she’s mean.”
“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused.
No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.
“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.
“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”
Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.
“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”
The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”
Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s funny?”
“Very.”
“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.
Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”
“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”
“Exactly.”
“And she says it loud.”
“That’s true.”
“She says it really loud, Dad.”
Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”
“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little.
“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”
“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”
Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head.
His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.
His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.
“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.
Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”
“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!
“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”
Katsuki deflates on the spot.
More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.
His mother, however, has no such excuse.
“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”
“Then why does she like you?”
Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”
His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”
“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.
“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”
That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.
“I think you will, son.”
“I definitely won’t.”
Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.
He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.
“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”
“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”
────────────────────────
Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.
You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.
He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.
You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you.
Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.
He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.
The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.
He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.
The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.
But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.
By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.
Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.
His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.
By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.
The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it.
“Shit—”
The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it.
Then everything goes dark.
────────────────────────
It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.
Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.
The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you.
“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”
The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.
“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”
At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.
Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it
Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there
Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry
Kiri <3: Keep me updated?
You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u
You: Thank you and pls be safe
You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out
Kiri <3: Take it easy okay?
Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright
——
Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.
Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.
“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”
The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”
You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.
When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”
You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.
“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”
You’re already moving.
By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?
You aren’t sure.
You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.
But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.
You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.
“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.
He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.
“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”
He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”
You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes.
You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.
“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”
“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”
“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”
“Listen—”
“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.
His eyes soften. “I know, but—”
“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”
You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.
“I love you too—”
“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”
His expression tightens. “That’s not—”
“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”
“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”
You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”
“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”
A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”
“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”
“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”
He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.
After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”
────────────────────────
Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.
It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”
His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.
“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”
“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.
“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”
Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”
There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.
“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.
“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”
He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”
“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”
“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”
“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.
His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”
The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”
Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Will my son be paying?”
Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”
“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”
Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”
so anyway i had an argument with my bf the other day but he did not get into an accident and he did not get injured so dont worry. the argument was technically my fault, but im cute and he loves me so its okay <3
cw: smut, fem!reader, pro hero kiri, fingering, cunnilingus, praise, biting (his teeth aint sharp for nth), lmk if i missed anything <3
a/n: short drabble bc im moving rn cant post as much babies
𖤓 You were Pro Hero Red Riot’s prettiest little secret.
He hated it—hated tucking you away like something shameful. It went against every instinct he had, every loud, proud bone in his body. But the thought of some villain catching wind of you, using you to get to him… it made his blood run cold. So he kept you hidden. Kept you safe. And in return, he ruined you in every way that mattered.
That’s how you ended up on your back, thighs spread wide while two of his thick fingers worked deep inside your dripping cunt.
“Fuck, baby…” His voice was low, rough, almost reverent. He watched the way you clenched around him, slick glistening down his knuckles. “Look at you. So goddamn pretty like this.”
He curled his fingers, dragging against that spongy spot that made your hips jerk. A broken whimper slipped out of you and he groaned, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your inner thigh—sharp, possessive, leaving another mark only he would ever see.
“Kiri—ah—too much,” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He didn’t slow down. If anything, he pressed in deeper, scissoring his fingers while his tongue soothed the fresh bite. “You can take it. Been thinkin’ about this sweet little pussy all damn day.” His hips rocked against the mattress, cock straining painfully against his pants. He had ten minutes. Ten minutes before he had to meet Bakugou for a stealth op, and he was spending every last one of them between your legs.
“Missed me that bad, huh?” he murmured against your skin, breath hot. “Couldn’t even wait. Dripping all over my fingers like you need it.”
You tried to close your thighs around his wrist but he tsked, one large hand pinning your leg open. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into you filled the room, mixing with your shaky breaths.
“Eijirou— you’re gonna be late—”
“Don’t care.” His voice was hoarse, almost desperate. He dropped his head and sealed his mouth over your swollen clit, sucking hard. The filthy, wet sound of it made your back arch clean off the bed. “Bakugou can wait. You can’t.”
His tongue flicked fast and relentless while his fingers curled again and again. The coil in your stomach wound tighter, unbearable. Your thighs started to tremble.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Cum for me. Make a mess—fuck, just like that—”
You shattered with a cry, squirting around his fingers, thighs shaking violently as he kept working you through it. He groaned like he was the one coming, lapping at you like he couldn’t get enough.
When your body finally went limp, he pulled back just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to your twitching clit.
“Good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with want. His lips were shiny. “My good fuckin’ girl.”
He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, breathing hard against your thigh, like he was debating whether ten minutes was enough time to flip you over and sink his cock into you after all.
"When will you be bac—" Your voice is abruptly cut off, speaker screeching before you are back on the screen, nose scrunched as you try and fail to balance it on the cabinet.
Bakugou sighed, eyes endearingly tracing the shape of your face, even pixelated, "Few more weeks, we've go—" He leans over, fiddling with the confusing switches of the hotel room, hoping to find the one that turns off the bedside lamp, "we've got to make sure threat is cleared before flying back home."
He sees you nod your head, fingers smoothening out the wrinkles on the face mask you've been trying to apply, "Miss you so much, Babe."
He can feel the physical ache settling in his chest at the prospect of waiting for weeks to be back home, back with you.
"Miss you too." You muttered, wiping your hands before reaching for the phone, holding it close to your face to truly admire your boyfriend, uncaring that his view is nothing but your blurry forehead and at most your left ear, "It's so quiet without you, I miss your cooking too, you know."
"I know Babe, you finished all the meals I prepared for you?" He asked, trying to make himself comfortable in the rough sheets when you slide into bed, your side full of his pillows. "Yeah I did, ate them all on time too."
"That's my good girl." He praised, grinning as you preened over his words, "What have you been eating now?"
You glanced to the side, pretending to have not heard him, pulling loose threads from your blanket. "Just stuff."
Bakugou quirked his brow, straightening up slightly, thumb absentmindedly tracing the screen along your cheek, "Babe, what have you been eating, come on tell me."
Sighing loudly, you replied, "Made fried rice yesterday, they weren't as good as yours though," he hummed in response, waiting for you to continue, "Ma came by on Wednesday with chicken cutlet and curry too."
It warmed Bakugou's heart to know that his parents got along with you so well, felt at peace knowing that they'd take care of you whilst he was away.
"What about you, are they feeding you good?" You questioned, bringing the phone back towards your face, eyes scanning his figure, once again giving him a beautiful view of your forehead.
"Yeah, it's alright here." He mumbled, smiling softly as you fiddled with the face mask, probably itching to get it off as you grew sleepier, "Still doesn't hit like home though."
You hummed, eyes droopy as you pulled covers closer, "They can't burn cereal to perfection like me."
That pulled a snort out of him, cheeks achey with how much he smiled in the past hour, "I still have no idea what you were trying to achieve."
"Was taking creative liberties," you grinned along with him, eyes twinkling in the dim light of your bedroom, "it back fired."
"It did."
It's quiet for a moment, both of you staring at the bright screen, hoping you were closer than the pixelated image.
"You sleepy?" Bakugou yawned, watching you peel of the face mask, before tossing it in the trash, hands rubbing the leftover serum.
You nodded your head, settling the phone between the headboard and your pillow, "Facetime till we fall asleep?"
↝ It's been eight years since Bakugou handed you the divorce papers without any reason, leaving you and your two children. But when co-parenting gets difficult and old feelings come back, you struggle with whether you can fall back in love with your ex-husband.
PAIRING: prohero!bakugou/dad!bakugou/divorced!bakugou x teacher!reader / mom!reader /divorced!reader (afab)
TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+; angst; kids; eventual smut (specific chapters will have different nsfw related tags); divorce; marriage; mention of pregnancy; fluff; suggestive; romance; second chances; jealousy; older bakugou and reader
STATUS: completed
A/N: this has been an idea that i've had for a while but never went through with it. i originally thought of it like four years ago but then fell off tumblr and now WE'RE BACK. tysm to everyone who helped out with the title of the series, especially to the anon who sent in this title!! i did not expect this series to have this many parts but i just had a lot i wanted to add to the story! also my first time doing anything nsfw in the 8 years i've had this blog lol... it's been a minute since i did a fic series (not smau related basically) so can't wait!
JOIN THE TAGLIST
⋆ PART I ↠ THE ROUTINE
⋆ PART II ↠ ARE YOU HAPPY
⋆ PART III ↠ JEALOUSY
⋆ PART IV ↠ MY BUSINESS
⋆ PART V ↠ THE TRUTH
⋆ PART VI ↠ BABY FEVER
⋆ PART VII ↠ THE ONLY ONE
⋆ PART VIII ↠ FOR THE KIDS
⋆ PART IX ↠ CAN'T HOLD BACK 18+
⋆ PART X ↠ SQUARE ONE
⋆ PART XI ↠ JUST FRIENDS
⋆ PART XII ↠ DON'T HURT HER
⋆ PART XIII ↠ DROWN IN IT 18+
⋆ PART XIV ↠ HERO
⋆ PART XV ↠ BIG HAPPY FAMILY
⋆ PART XVI ↠ THOSE THREE WORDS 18+
⋆ PART XVII ↠ REST OF MY LIFE
⋆ PART XVIII ↠ BLAMES AND FAULTS
⋆ PART XIX ↠ DESERVE TO BE LOVED 18+
⋆ EPILOGUE ↠ SECOND TIME AROUND
⋆ PROLOGUE ↠ FIRST TIME AROUND 18+
EXTRAS:
⋆ ALTERNATE ENDING
⋆ THIRD BABY
⋆ DATING IZUKU
⋆ HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER
⋆ NIGHTLY INTERRUPTIONS 18+
⋆ FIRST TIME 18+
⋆ GETTING INTERRUPTED AGAIN 18+
⋆ MEET THE PARENTS
⋆ BAKUGOU INTERRUPTING
⋆ REWARD FOR THE NUMBER THREE HERO 18+
⋆ KATSUO'S BAD DAY
⋆ KIDS INTERACTING WITH IZUKU
⋆ VILLAIN ATTACK POST-DIVORCE
⋆ DYNAMIGHT FANS AMBUSH
⋆ TOO LATE TO SAVE YOU
⋆ HEAD DURING ZOOM CALL 18+
⋆ SUKI'S BREAKUP
⋆ SUKI COMING OUT
⋆ MEET THE PARENTS PT. II (FEAT. KANA)
⋆ EXPLAINING DEATH
⋆ MEETING BABY HOSHI
⋆ PRESS AMBUSH
⋆ HONEYMOON SEX 18+
⋆ HONEYMOON SEX PT. II 18+
⋆ ANOTHER WAR
⋆ NEWEST ADDITION TO THE FAMILY
⋆ POST-WAR REUNION 18+
⋆ POST-WAR REUNION PT. II
⋆ DISTRACTIONS 18+
⋆ DIVORCED AND YEARNING 18+
⋆ BAKUGOU'S 40TH BIRTHDAY
⋆ LITTLE ANGEL KATSUMI
⋆ WAR NIGHTMARES
⋆ MOVE IN WITH ME
⋆ SUKI DEFENDING BAKUGOU
⋆ REWARD FOR THE NUMBER ONE HERO 18+
⋆ NEWBIE HERO HITTING ON Y/N
⋆ NEEDY BAKUGOU 18+
⋆ KATSUMI'S BULLIES
⋆ REMARRIAGE BODY WORSHIP 18+
⋆ TRYING TO GET OVER YOU
⋆ DYNAMIGHT FANS AMBUSH KATSUMI
⋆ MOMMA
⋆ KATSUO'S FIRST WORD
⋆ BAKUGOU ON ANESTHESIA
⋆ GROWN SUKI AND KATSUO WALKING IN ON BAKUGOU AND Y/N 18+
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.
You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which means…
You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.
It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.
The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”
“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”
He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
It’s torture, being here.
And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you can’t find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”
Stop.
What are you doing?
“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”
“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.
“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.
“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”
“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”
“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
“Yes.”
“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesn’t stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”
Alpha.
You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.
Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.
Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,
“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
It’s not fair.
“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.
Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.
“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.
“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”
“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
It’s late when the knock comes.
“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You don’t answer. He sighs.
“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
The voices wake you.
Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.
You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.
“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.
“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”
They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.
Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.
You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.
“We’ll stay here for the night.”
“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.
“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”
You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.
Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.
Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.
So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.
Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.
You instinctively press back against the wall.
It’s quiet, and then… your name.
It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.
More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.
It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.
Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.
Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.
You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.
The closet door swings open, and there he is.
Johnny.
He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.
“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,
“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.
“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.
When you don’t move, he sighs.
“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.
“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.
“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.
“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.
“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.
Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.
These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.
So you move.
The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.
Simon.
He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.
Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.
Your meds.
Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.
Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”
“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.
“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.
“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.
“Why?” You croak.
“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”
“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?” Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.
“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”
“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”
“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.
“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.
“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.
“Who you are?” Johnny nods.
“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”
“So… that’s like… the military?”
“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.
“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.
“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.
“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.
“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.
“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.
“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.
“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.
“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.
“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.
“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”
“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.
“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”
“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.
“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”
“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.
“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.
“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.
“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.
“N-no your… your marks…”
“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.
It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.
“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?
Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.
“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.
“Yeah that’s… that’s alright.”
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